


Not

by micehell



Category: Tour of Duty (1987)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-15
Updated: 2005-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words and deeds both carry their own power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not

**Author's Note:**

> One of my August is for Awful Sex stories. ;)

The heat was stifling, and the grief was stifling, and John Fucking McKay was stifling, and between the three of them, Myron was sure he was going to lose it and shoot more than the floor of the hootch.

"What do you want, McKay?"

After an afternoon mainly comprised of moody silence, actual talking seemed to take McKay by surprise, because instead of an answer, Myron was treated to a fair carp imitation.

But good things never last, and McKay finally broke the silence. "I don't think it's good for you to keep things inside like this. You need to let it out."

Myron felt the anger well up and then die again. As bad as he was, McKay wasn't the problem. Not to mention that he was right. And Myron wanted to let it out, to let it go, God knew, but the wanting wasn't doing him any good. Nothing was.

After much nagging, after a lot of whiskey, and against his better judgment, he'd talked to McKay, to Zeke. He'd talked as much as he could bear, but the grief - the guilt- was still there. And yet here was McKay, nagging him again.

"Fine, fine, fine. You think I should let things go. But you also thought talking would help, and that didn't work, so what do you suggest now?"

McKay just stared at first, making Myron think that he'd rendered him speechless again. Which was fine with Myron, as he preferred the silence. But then McKay was coming at him, and he was sure that he'd finally, finally irritated the man enough that he was going to attack. Which was fine with Myron, because beating the hell out of McKay was going to have fewer consequences than shooting him.

But McKay didn't take a swing at him, surprising Myron in his turn, coming up under his guard, up hard against his body, against his lips. And this wasn't fine with Myron, because the most McKay inspired in him was an appreciation of a pretty face, and that appreciation was always tempered with extreme irritation.

Myron pulled away, looking into startled eyes. "That was the best you could come up with?"

Which McKay seemed to take as a challenge rather than a criticism, as he pressed in close, stroking a hand down Myron's face. "I miss her, too. Every day. But I'm still alive." He kept going, putting fingers over the automatic denial that was on Myron's lips. "You're not alive. You're not. You're marking time, and barely even that."

He leaned in close, the kiss softer this time, trying to connect. But Myron pulled away again, still shaking in denial.

"What's the harm, Goldman? Myron. A little bit of heat, a little bit of comfort. A little bit of release. It can only do you good."

As a sales pitch, it left much to be desired, but it didn't really matter. Because Myron was tired; he was tired of the heat, he was tired of the grief, he was tired of McKay... except not. Because maybe McKay was right. Maybe this would work. If nothing else, maybe he could forget what he was thinking about. Could forget what he wasn't thinking about.

If nothing else, it would answer some questions about what he wasn't thinking about.

Sex with a man might be a mystery, but Myron knew how to kiss, and it wasn't soft, and it wasn't gentle, and McKay replied in kind. Kissing, touching, both full of frustration, almost anger, that it wasn't the right person on the other end.

McKay was smooth, all quick and knowing hands, and he didn't seem to mind when Myron accidentally tore his shirt trying to get it off. He didn't seem to mind when Myron accidentally kneed him as they were trying to arrange themselves on the cot. He didn't even seem to mind when Myron's grip on his cock was too tight, backwards, as a brain used to one direction tried to reverse itself. He just flowed with Myron's stuttering movements, positioned hands that were lost, legs not used to this angle.

Myron tried to follow the lead he was given, but it was hard, and he wasn't, and this wasn't anything he'd ever wanted. Not with McKay, anyway.

But then McKay was pushing Myron's hands down, stilling them. He was sliding down the cot, marking his path on Myron's body with tongue and teeth. Then Myron's still flaccid cock was in a mouth that was hard and soft, tongue and teeth again; lips, throat and suction pressing his cock oh so close, oh so tight, tongue dancing in a pattern that would make stones weep. And it felt... okay. And it felt all wrong.

This was what Myron had chosen, but it wasn't what he wanted, and it was getting more so with every moment that McKay tried and Myron couldn't. Finally guilt forced him to move, fingers that were still learning pulling McKay up, pulling McKay over and over, too quick, too rough, but then he succeeded where McKay had failed. Or, rather, McKay succeeded where Myron had failed, finding his release, finding surcease in the moment.

Afterwards, McKay cleaned himself up, righted his clothes, not looking at Myron. He moved to the door, pausing, never looking back. "I'm sorry. I'd thought I could help you, could give you something you needed. I won't make that mistake again."

And Myron tried not to feel relief when McKay left, tried to feel sorry for what he'd done, and not done, but he was too tired to lie to himself anymore.

He cleaned McKay off his body, washing taste and memory away with whiskey, with smoke. He lay back on his bed, thinking about choices, those made and those avoided.

McKay had been wrong in a way, though, because Myron did get something out of the sex, poor as it was, as he'd been, because for a few blessed minutes he'd managed to forget what he'd been thinking about, managed to forget about Alex.

But it was a mixed blessing at best, in that he'd remembered what he hadn't been thinking about, remembered Zeke. Had lay there wondering if Zeke would kiss like that. If Zeke's arms would feel like that, his touch. Hoping not, imagining more.

Then the guilt was back, a familiar companion, because it should have been Alex, it should have always been Alex. Should never have been Zeke. And Myron hoped Alex had never known. Hoped Zeke wouldn't.

Hoped Zeke would.

But that was pointless. Everything was pointless, and he didn't want to think about Alex, he didn't want to think about Johnny, and he especially didn't want to think about Zeke.

Especially did not want Zeke. And it was almost a true statement, missing by only one word.

There'd been a time in his life when he lived and breathed words, meant to make his living by them, and yet here, at the world's end, they kept failing him. Or perhaps he was failing them. Because some words had more power than he wanted them to: if, should, mother, father, duty, want. Love and Zeke. And most especially not.

It was so casually used for a word of such power. You shall not kill. You will not fraternize. You will not have congress with another man. All things that Myron had done, now.

All things Myron wondered if he should have.

He had no answers, might never have, so he held to what he did have, to what he knew, and lay there, drinking, smoking, thinking, and let the words have their way.

/story


End file.
